


It Never Ends

by vylit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-11
Updated: 2006-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vylit/pseuds/vylit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are on the road, and Sam knows they're being followed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Never Ends

Chicago leaves Sam with an itch between his shoulder blades. It's quiet, and cold, like his spine's been doused with ice, like claws in his back. He can't relax, and after the first few days Dean seems to catch it as well, as if he's too tuned into Sam's moods to not feel the tension. Sam sees the bulge of an extra gun under his shirt, notices how Dean never has more than one drink now, no matter how safe the place seems to be. 

Dean asks him what's wrong, says, “What the fuck, Sam?” but Sam doesn't know the answer. He doesn't know anything but this sense of wrongness.

They stop checking into motels every night. Between jobs they shower in truck stops and sleep in the Impala with the seats pushed back and headlights off. Dean's out in minutes, leaving Sam to stare at the roof until his eyes won't stay open. The sound of Dean's rough breathing and the passing cars are his entire world after the sun goes down, and after the first few nights, Sam begins to prefer it to the odd musty smell of motel rooms and the scratch of cheap bedding.

Sometime between the fifteenth day and the fiftieth, with the sun low on the horizon and long, dark shadows in the street, he says, “I can feel them. They're here.” 

Outside a rotting wood sign proclaims “Cheap gas! Fresh coffee!” in faded red paint, and Sam looks at it rather than Dean. He thinks they're still in Abilene.

“We're gone in an hour,” Dean says, not asking how Sam knows. 

They pull out of the parking lot with a gun in the front seat and Def Leppard playing on the radio, and it only takes them five minutes to get to the campground with Dean driving. They get out and load their guns, their movements quick from practice, and when they walk into the woods, they are side by side, shoulders touching. 

It takes them almost two hours. They're covered with green-black blood and dirt and sweat, and by the time they make it back to the Impala, the sky is dark. They change outside -- _I know you're not getting into my car covered in that shit_ \-- under the stars with Dean muttering “big fucker” and “bastard ripped my jeans” every other breath.

Dean climbs into the driver's seat and blasts the stereo the moment they're in the car. “They still around?” 

Sam feels like something is clenching around his chest, like it's wrapping around his spine, leaving him cold. “Yeah, I think so.” 

He knows so.

Dean nods at him and pulls the car out onto the road. 

They drive fast. Faster. They leave no trail. Like ghosts, intangible, impossible to see and difficult to follow. They drive with two eyes on the road in front of them and two eyes behind them.

* * *

They argue outside a bar in Fredericksburg. _Selfish. Irresponsible. Asshole._ Voices loud, louder, loudest until Sam throws a punch. Dean moves, but not fast enough, not in time, and the adrenaline of skin hitting skin makes the weight on Sam's chest recede.

Dean gets quiet, drags his knuckles against his mouth, dirt and skin and blood, and when it comes back red, he smiles slow and wide. “Not bad.”

And then they're sparring. Knuckles and bone and muscle, hard impacts and grunts, the slap of their shoes against the ground. Move, counter move, _don't take a hit if you don't have to; if you have to, make it count._

It's like they used to fight when they were younger, and it's nothing like that at all. Their dad isn't standing to the side, critiquing technique, _drop your arm, Sammy; move to the left_ and telling them when to stop, and the fight is making Sam less angry, not more, loosening something inside him rather than leaving him bitter and resentful and itching to make one of the hits against Dean really hurt, really count. 

They fight until their lungs burn and their muscles scream, until they hear sirens, loud and screeching like banshees, and then they're in the car. Dean drives, using an old car rag stained dark with oil to wipe the blood from his fist and face while he weaves in and out of late night traffic. Sam uses it after, his eyes drawn to the black and red streaks on his fingers. Dean's blood. Winchester blood.

* * *

Sam swears that he sees Meg outside Little Rock, a flash of choppy blonde hair and a yellow leather jacket, but he loses her in the crowd, his breath coming out in quick pants as he moves in and out, around and behind, searching.

Dean says, “It's just your imagination,” and “she's dead,” and “she took a fucking swan dive, Sam,” but they leave as soon as the job is done, and Dean doesn't take a straight path out of town.

They go down side streets and back streets and neighborhoods, radio down low.

_Blend in. Don't draw attention to yourself. Being predictable will get you killed._

The last one's always a deal breaker for Sam, but he's learning. He's learning.

* * *

They keep up their sparring after Fredricksburg. Sam calls it “letting off steam,” Dean says it's training, and Sam believes in some part of himself that neither are quite right, but it doesn't matter when Dean has him pinned, warm breath in his face, words moving across his skin, “California made you soft.”

Maybe Dean wants it to be training, wants it to be like everything else that they do, like what they've done since they were kids, but when Dean gives Sam his snake smile – predatory and arousing, Sam doesn't believe it. 

And when Dean leaves to talk to a contact, Sam lies down on his bed, unzips his jeans, and wraps his hands around his cock. He tells himself that it's not Dean that has made him so desperate, that it has nothing to do with Dean, and he grips himself hard enough to hurt when he thinks of Dean's familiar skin and rough hands. 

It's not like anyone else. It's not that hot, sharp flair along his spine that he felt for Jessica. It's slow and steady and desperate, an ache that's as a part of him as Dean, his dad, and Jessica are. He fights it, pulling his mind back to anyone and anything else, but it doesn't work, doesn't last.

Sam's filled with Dean. Dean's voice that sits low on Sam's spine, Dean's smile that pulls on Sam's cock, just Dean who is there and always has been, and it's too much. He imagines Dean walking in, what Dean's face would look like when he watches Sam, how dark his eyes would be, and Sam's pulling harder and fucking his hand and when he comes it's like being pulled under, like being caught in an undertow, like drowning.

* * *

He sees faces again and again. They're in every street of every town. Short bleached blond hair and brown hair in long braids, tanned skin and pale skin. Something familiar in the way they look at Sam, in the way they look at Dean.

He doesn't know if it's paranoia or something else, doesn't even know which he'd prefer at this point, but by the time Dean brings them to Albuquerque, Sam is spending his days strung out and his nights sparring with Dean. His skin's vibrating like it knows something's coming, like it can see something Sam can't. There's a hum at the edge of Sam's vision, and he's waiting for it to catch up.

And Dean doesn't say much when they pull into the parking lot of the hotel, not even when Sam stares at him for five minutes and says, “Dude, here?” Because this place isn't what they're used to. The sheets are white and soft and smell like fabric softener, and the carpet is tan and thick and clean, and Dean pays in cash, grabbing one of the keycards off the dresser and tossing out an “I'll be back” before he's out the door. 

Sam sits down and opens up the laptop for a few before deciding to take a shower. The bathroom is bright, smells like ammonia and bleach and flowery soap, and he takes his time stripping down, his body sluggish and hands clumsy. 

The lights in the bathroom are too bright, making his bruises look overexposed, the old yellow-green ones colliding with the newer purple-blues. The faint criss-cross of scars look raised and bright pink, and he runs his hands down them in the shower, staying in until the hot water turns tepid and the skin on his fingers shrivel. 

When Dean comes in he's sitting on the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist, flipping through the stations on the television. 

“This should help,” Dean says, tossing a white bag on the bed in front of Sam. 

Inside is a hamburger and fries, and an envelope with a new ID and credit cards to match. “Virgil Monk?” Sam throws the remote at Dean and catches him in the stomach. Dean's laughing too hard to deflect much of anything.

* * *

The new IDs seem to work for a while. Sam doesn't see anything, doesn't feel anything unusual.

They take out a soul stealer in Tennessee, bring down a poltergeist in Pennsylvania. They stay in hotels again, take long showers, and sleep deep with guns under their pillows. They have weeks of peace, of jokes and smiles and loose shoulders. 

It lasts until Rhode Island. They're by the ocean, taking out a creature they don't have a name for, when Dean nearly drowns. He's under too long and not breathing when Sam drags him back on shore, his skin cold and his face pale, long gashes on his arms from claws. And Sam's leaning down, breathing into his brother's mouth and praying with each breath _not yet not now not ever not him not him_ when Dean coughs up water and twists his body around, choked breaths catching in his throat. 

Sam's so relieved he can't do anything but keep one palm on Dean's back and another on Dean's chest, feeling it expand with each breath of air.

That night they go back to the motel and collapse exhausted into the same bed, their legs and arms tangling as they fall asleep.

_Dean's OK. Dean's OK. DeanDeanDean,_ Sam thinks, finally falling asleep.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning to a crick in his neck and Dean's heavy arm around him. The pressure in his temples is back, the sense of wrongness, of being watched, sour steel on his tongue.

He gets up out of bed, slipping out from under Dean, and salts the doorways like his dad taught him. It's precise work, building shields, and Sam hasn't forgotten.

* * *

Outside Ohio they come together for the first time in lips and tongue and teeth, sex heavy in the air between them. Desperate touching, worried lines between Dean's eyes, and too quick, too hasty hands.

They're side by side when Sam says, “It's never going to be over.”

He's not sure if he means him and Dean or this life or the feeling of being stalked, but Dean just rolls over and stares at him, face blank. “No, Sammy, it won't.”

And if there's a reply Sam could make, it drowns under the feel of Dean's hands on him and Dean's warm mouth on his own.

 

end.


End file.
